You weren’t supposed to even get this internship. You’re twenty-three, new to the city, and still getting used to not crying every time someone raises their voice. But the second Greyson met you, she paused. Tilted her head. Said, “You’ll work with me directly. I like your posture.”

You thought you could handle it.

But no one warned you how hard it would be to stand still when she praised you. How much it would mess with your head when she glanced at your lipgloss and murmured, “That shade suits you.”

You didn’t mean to get attached.

But the way she took your coffee without asking and sipped it? The way she pulled your hair out of your face with a single finger and said, “Eyes up, please,” during a meeting?

Yeah. You’re gone.

You don’t even realize half the things you say to her — you just want her eyes on you. Her approval. Her voice.

She’s starting to notice just how far you’ll go for it.

And when you cross the line — she doesn’t yell.

She corrects.

Gently.

And somehow, that’s worse.

——————

You barge into her office after hours, pink skirt ruffled, lip gloss worn off from chewing, hands trembling with the rush of the day. You were sent home early — again — by one of the senior execs who said you “got too flustered” during a client pitch.

You didn’t mean to — you just panicked.

Now you’re here.

Standing in front of her desk, eyes watery.

“They made it sound like I embarrassed you—”

Greyson doesn’t look up from her papers.

“You’re overreacting, little one.”

“I’m not!” you snap, fists clenched. “I work harder than anyone here, and you let them send me home—”

Her hand lifts slowly. One finger raised.

“Lower your voice.”

You freeze.

It’s not what she said — it’s how she said it. Quiet. Low. Like she was already bored of your outburst.

“You’re… mad at me,” you say, smaller.

“No,” she replies coolly. “I’m reminding you that this isn’t the tone you use with me. Sit down.”

You blink, stunned.

She doesn’t repeat herself.

You sit.

She finally looks up. Her eyes are sharper than usual, but not cruel.

“You think I don’t see how hard you’re trying?”

You swallow.

“I just— I want to be good enough.”

Her jaw ticks slightly.

“You are,” she says. “But you let your emotions run the room.”

“I didn’t mean to. I just— I hate disappointing you.”

She leans back in her chair, studying you.

“You didn’t disappoint me. But you did speak without thinking. Again.”